As I lifted Mom’s foot up on the footrest of her wheelchair, I could barely hear her whispery voice say, “Your dress—”

“My dress?”

I stood up and my flea market dress swirled around my calves. I had worn it for two days straight because it makes me feel free even as I wheel Mom around an institution that—for all its views of the lake and spacious hallways—makes me feel caged.

“You like my dress?”

“Not especially.”

Mom’s frailty has softened her edges like a linen dishtowel worn thin from 60 years of washing, but "not especially" was the old familiar Mom. Without her wry appraisals, of my outfits, my lack of make-up or my worn-out tote bag, we have grown physically closer, like when I was little and would throw my arms around her neck. In fact, I'd almost forgotten the annoying “Not especially's" she often used to try and spruce me up.

In the past year her energy has gone into swallowing, speaking audibly and holding onto facts such as where she lives. Sitting up is a struggle: when I arrived in Milwaukee from my home in New York City for the weekend, I found her slumped sideways in her wheelchair, one hand dangling off the side like a corpse.

Memory-wise, Mom can no longer hold onto the details of my travel plans so I don’t bother to tell her when I’m coming. I simply appear, like magic, and when she spots me her mouth falls open, her eyes widen and she mouths my name. Growing up, I often felt the persnickety “Not especially’s” more than this look of love and devotion.

This kinder, gentler Mom allows me to rub her feet with lotion and sits without complaint as I wheel her around--and yet, is this sweet, kissable mother the mother I really want?

Not especially.

I miss the sharper Mom and saw her twice on my visit, the second time when I took her outside and she said, “Let’s just do the normal thing.” It was that old sparky Mom who seemed to disapprove of my unconventional side, which worried her, such as when I wanted to sew a dress without a pattern, or start a travel club as a teen, or move to New York City.

Now, even in her foggy mental state, she suspected I was contemplating a big outing, like pushing her wheelchair to a street fair half a mile away even though it threatened rain.

She was right, as she often is, but instead of feeling hurt and rebellious, it made me laugh because no one can read me like Mom. Giving in, I turned and wheeled her to the back of the building, where we buried our noses in fragrant lilacs until raindrops began to fall. The scent was like injecting a drug: with surprising force, the mom who tended flower gardens all her life--and injected a loving dose of reality into my dreams—reached over and snapped off a sprig to take back to her room, as I snapped a photo to preserve her as best I can.